


we have been damned, we have survived

by ashers_kiss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, as in the language Rey uses to describe some things from TFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 10:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: She leaves while Rey’s breath is still rattling in her chest, and Rey can’t do much more than stare after her until Finn finds her.She doesn’t hear about Phasma and her troops’ spectacular defection until later.Or:  it's a little awkward when your enemy turns sides.





	we have been damned, we have survived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> Thank you, [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake), for finally letting me put some of my many, many complicated and convoluted feelings about these two in fic form!
> 
> This probably isn't as epic as you meant in your letter (I always have big plans and then it turns into something quieter), but I hope you enjoy it all the same. I have so many different stories for these two in my head, I sometimes struggle to get them out coherently, so hopefully this is one of them. :)
> 
> Biggest thanks, as always, to everyone who listened to my frustrations with this, including S for keeping me sane (even if she did bunny me for so much more at the same time). ♥♥♥
> 
> Title from Zero Visibility by Rise Against (which is _such_ a SW song).

The first time Rey sees that shining armour heading towards her, she’s alone on the smoking remains of a battlefield on a planet whose name escapes her right now, trapped as she is under the broken stabiliser of an old A-wing that just _won’t move_ , Force or no Force.  The lightsabre – her lightsabre, _her_ lightsabre – is just barely out of reach at her hip, and she can’t think of any way of using it that won’t involve her losing a leg.

There’s a joke in there, somewhere, but she looks up and every thought flies from her head except _no, **no** ,_ because that armour, that _walk_ , the certainty as she strides, no, not again – Rey twists, grits her teeth as her heart thunders in her throat, her ears, the fingertips straining for her belt –

Then the wing is gone, and a chrome hand is pulling at her free arm until Rey can get her feet under her, unsteady and shaking, but upright.  “On your feet, Jedi.”  Her voice echoes slightly – not as distorted as his, but deeper, somehow.  “They’re not finished yet.”  She leaves while Rey’s breath is still rattling in her chest, and Rey can’t do much more than stare after her until Finn finds her.

She doesn’t hear about Phasma and her troops’ spectacular defection until later.

*

The second time, Rey’s on her feet, at least.  She’s speaking with a rather agitated Sullustan (or trying to, anyway – Rey's Sullustese is rusty, and she is _very_ fast) in the middle of a busy marketplace, when there’s the glint of brilliant metal, so achingly out of place in this dustbowl, a low murmur running through the crowd in its wake (ready to run, ready to hide, ready – ).  Rey looks up, again, and again, Phasma is there, heading in her direction.

It still stutters Rey’s breath, that sight; she swallows the noise that wants to scrape out and doesn’t let her hand so much as twitch.

There’s nothing to see on the smooth planes of the helmet, nothing to indicate her path, but – but there’s _something_ , a low twinge in the Force, and Rey shakes her head just once, hard enough for her hair to whip into her face.  The trader doesn’t even notice, too busy trying to get her story out.

It would be impossible to pinpoint any change of direction, but Phasma walks past the stall without even turning her head, moving seamlessly through the berth the crowd is giving her.  Rey breathes out, slowly, and asks the trader if she’s _sure_.

(“She was alone,” she tells Finn, back on the Falcon, and later, the General and her council.  She doesn’t shake then.)

*

The fifth time – and what does it say, Rey wonders, that she’s getting used to this?  That they all are.  Used to the bolts fired over their heads, cutting into white like it isn’t even there.  Used to the wary who hang back after every battle, every encounter, until Phasma marches forward like a banner, still head to boot in armour.  (“At least she got rid of the cape,” Finn says once, like he’s thought about it, and Rey has to bite back a laugh that’s too high, too loud, too – )

The fifth time, she’s covered in mud, and even Phasma’s armour is splattered, the only way Rey can even see her in this rain.  “You’re too grey,” Rey tells her, and it makes no sense, but her hands ache where her sabre bit too deep and there’s mud sucking at her feet, plastering her clothes, her hair, and Rey doesn’t even _like_ baths, it’s such a waste, but this planet clearly has water to spare and –

And how to say, you’re all too grey, too dark, too untrusting.  Too _untrusted_.

She’s pretty sure that’s not even a word.

On anyone else, there might be a smile to go with that tilted head.  “I’ll take it under advisement, Jedi.”  It doesn’t echo so much, through the rain; Rey doesn’t know why she laughs, really, but it feels…good.

*

Twenty-ninth time, and Phasma’s shot only goes wide of Ren’s chest because Rey dives for her legs in time.

“Are you _mad_?”  Even through the helmet, it’s so clearly a snarl, rage pulsing through every word, through the Force, hard and hot like a heartbeat, and Rey probably _is_ mad, they’re not likely to get another shot, not like that, not ever, but –

“I promised Luke.”  It isn’t what she was going to say ( _I promised Han I promised I promised the General I promised I promised I –_ ), but Phasma stills under her anyway.  Which is when Rey realises she is literally pinning her down, with hands tight around metal wrists, her knees digging into armoured sides.  Rey bears down, hard.  She doesn’t think Phasma even winces.

After a moment, another, while the Force swirls and clears around them, there’s a static rattle from the cage of Phasma’s chest.  “You make my life difficult, Jedi,” she says eventually.  Then, “Can I get up now?”

*

She’s blonde.

Rey doesn’t know what instance this is, what number she’s lost track of (stamps down hard and vicious on the little voice that tries to tell her – “Letting go is hard,” Luke said once, with one of those sad smiles that meant he knew exactly how much of a hypocrite he was being, “but it gets easier”), but she stares down at the pale skin of Phasma’s bare nape, at the sharp edge of black collar and deadly silver, at the way her hair curls against her neck, dark with sweat and other fluids Rey doesn’t want to think about, and – and all she can think is, _I didn’t expect her to be blonde_.

She should be thinking of – anything else, everything they need to do, to regroup, about reports, about the funerals, about the – the dead man across Phasma’s lap, about Phasma’s gauntleted fingers clenched tight enough at his shoulder to tear his shirt.  About how _young_ he looks, how small.  She knows him, she realises, pulse thick in her ears.  He broke ranks, last time, broke away from the group to lift his chin and offer Poe his water bottle.

He’d smiled when Poe took it without hesitating, almost as bright as Finn.

She might as well set her hand to one of the old junkers, for all the life under her palm.  “I’m sorry,” she finally manages.  It’s not enough, it can’t be, not to replace that smile, but it still feels almost too much.  That if she breathes too deeply, she’ll ruin everything.

“You,” Phasma says, low and steady, “have nothing to apologise for.”  There’s danger in her voice, death, strong enough that Rey can _taste_ it, and for a moment she’s back on Jakku, as small as she can possibly make herself, waiting for the predator to pass her over.

The ground is littered with scorched armour, bodies riddled with blasterbolts and Phasma’s rage, and Rey struggles to find space, to kneel so she can see Phasma’s face.  Because this isn’t Jakku, isn’t the same, isn’t – her chest hurts, suddenly, desperately.  She knows pain, is intimately familiar with the slick slide of panic in her gut whenever Finn is hurt, the way her chest tightens whenever Poe returns late, whenever Jess or Rose are taken straight to medbay, when Han –

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen such naked, distant despair.

“Phasma.”  It’s the first time she’s called her by name, and even now, even here, there’s a small curl of something warm and satisfied when Phasma focuses, actually looks at her.  Rey smiles, weak and shaky though it is.  “You’ve done enough.”

Phasma’s throat works, a line appearing between her eyes, but she says nothing.

*

It’s only later, so much later, alone in her room and scrubbed clean by water and meditation, that she gives herself the space to think about the hard line of jaw, about eyes the colour of Jakku sky before the sun blazed on to the horizon.  About the way Phasma carried the body like it weighed nothing; about the line of her back, her shoulders, rigidly impossible even in the armour.

About the nod before she left with what remained of her troops, the one that made Jess and Paige spin on her as one, that even Luke lifted his eyebrows at.

Rey buries her face in a pillow.  She’s never been more thankful for the nights Finn spends in Poe’s room.

*

It’s not the next time, or even the next, but eventually, there’s alcohol, Black Squadron’s special brew that’s just about better, safer than the campfire rotgut Rey remembers better than she should.  So there’s alcohol and ex-troopers and enough bodies buried from both forces that no one objects when they break away from their own little clusters, slow, eagerness lighting up their eyes even as their fingers hesitate.  Rey’s already had her fair share when Finn splutters, booze spilling down his chin and over fingers, because “Phasma’s _drinking_.”  Rey has to blink, has to look for that telltale shine, and she begins to wonder how much she’s really had, because she can’t –

There.  There, in the shadows, as far back from the crowd and the dim lights as she can, as ramrod straight as she was in the General’s strategy meeting.  She’s too far away, but Rey knows, something deep and hot in her gut, that she’s watching her people, tracking them, even as she puts away cup after cup, refills them herself and retreats to her corner.  More importantly – and she can’t believe Finn’s so focused on the drinking, because Phasma’s not just drinking, she’s _out of her armour_ , all of it, clad in something tight and dark that Rey suspects is the undersuit she only caught a fleeting glimpse of, a thin line of black between gleaming chrome and pale skin.  It’s a distracting memory.

“Huh,” Rey says, and keeps drinking.

Later, so much later, always later, Rey hauls Phasma to her room with one arm hooked around her waist and Phasma’s held in place across her shoulders, even as Phasma twists and turns, jaw set mutinous.  (Rey snorts to herself at the thought, and has to twist to keep hold as Phasma tries again to duck away.)  “Dust preserve me,” she mutters, opening her door with her hip and no small use of the Force, dumping Phasma on her bed.  “They’ll be _fine_ , will you just – ”

There’s a hand wrapped tight around her wrist, and Rey’s breath stalls so hard it _hurts_.

Phasma looks up at her, too clear for someone who’s put away as much as she has.  It makes Rey’s head spin, the way she tips her head back like it’s nothing, how the lamp softens her jaw, glints through her hair.  Her hand is so _warm_ , when her armour burned so cold under Rey’s touch, and it seeps through Rey’s skin, slides through her veins to burrow deep and heavy in her belly.  Her pulse thunders against callused fingers, and Phasma has to feel it.

“I – ” Rey manages, and Phasma sweeps her thumb over sensitive skin, making what’s left of Rey’s air rush out in an embarrassingly high noise.  Phasma tilts her head, something like a curl to her lips – it’s the light, or the piss-poor alcohol, or Rey’s spinning head, her pounding heart, and she can’t, she _can’t_ –

Something flickers in Phasma’s eyes, and she nods.  “Not tonight, Jedi,” she says.  Then, “You should not sleep on the floor.”  She takes her hand away, and Rey feels cold.

But still, when morning comes, she wakes curled into a warm body, to fingers tucked over her hip and slow through her hair, and it’s not so terrible, really.  She can wait that while longer.

*

(Phasma first breathes her name between their mouths not an hour later.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] we have been damned, we have survived](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014192) by [ashers_kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss), [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




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